


All Life is Yours to Miss (Remix)

by voxmyriad



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Companion Piece, HP: EWE, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 21:58:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxmyriad/pseuds/voxmyriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Potter's world is wonderfully messy and unpredictable, just the way he likes it, but when an act of petty revenge goes horribly awry, he is locked inside his own head and must find a way to stay afloat on the sea of his own thoughts, or risk losing more than just his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Life is Yours to Miss (Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saras_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [All Life is Yours to Miss](https://archiveofourown.org/works/825875) by [Saras_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/pseuds/Saras_Girl). 



> This story is a remix of Saras_girl's spectacular All Life is Yours to Miss. When I discovered that amazing story, I wondered (in between all my flailing) what must have been going through Harry's mind. With her permission, this is my exploration of Harry's perspective on everything that happens. There are some instances of panic attacks and coping mechanisms, so have a care if you find it difficult to read about things like that.
> 
> It is a massive undertaking, and I don't know what my posting rate will be between work and other projects and such things, but conveniently I do know how it will end. I sincerely hope you all enjoy it as a companion piece to the original. I can't thank Saras_girl enough for giving me permission (and encouragement!) to play in her sandbox! As always, I'm making no money, only having far too much fun.

"...had _no_ idea if it'd work, I'd never tried Summoning something from that far away before, and while I was waiting meanwhile, I still had this great bloody dragon to deal with, and it hadn't forgot about me for a moment!"

It's a beautiful day, crisp and bright, a perfect day for flying, and Harry's been in a talkative mood since the morning. His first-years had done well today, almost everyone actually getting into the air for a few seconds not by accident _and_ hovering, and Harry is rewarding them with a flying story, the story of trying to outfly the Hungarian Horntail during the Triwizard Tournament. A few of their parents might have been there to watch, but their eager faces tell him this is a new and exciting story for everyone.

"I had to hide behind a rock, and the thing started trying to melt its way through, and by now I was getting a bit nervous, my broom had been my only idea and what if I hadn't Summoned it hard enough? But finally I risked a look, and it was pelting down at me, and somehow I managed to make the leap and hang on. The Horntail's fire nearly caught my tail, but we were away."

"That's _so_ cool, Professor Potter!" cries Peter Harrison, clutching his broom as if he wants to try escaping a flaming dragon right this moment. Harry laughs, absently reaching up to fruitlessly tame his hair as the autumn wind whips it into even more disarray than usual.

He's about to go on with the story when he's interrupted by a positively _scathing,_ "Professor Potter!" Harry turns, carefully schooling his face into neutrality, but it's an even greater challenge than expected when he's confronted with Malfoy struggling with his wet cloak, and wiping the damp away from his—

_Don't laugh, don't laugh, **don't laugh**._

"Hello, Professor Malfoy," Harry manages, much too innocently. "Is something the matter?" _As if I can't see what's the matter. Brilliant, I can't believe it worked._

"Could I speak to you alone for a moment?" Malfoy grits. "The bell has gone for afternoon break, you know."

Harry doesn't roll his eyes, but it's a near thing. "Yeah, I know, we were just getting to know each other a bit," he says instead, and counters by sighing and turning an apologetic smile onto his flock of first-years. "Off you go, then. I'll see you next time."

Peter Harrison looks heartbroken, hugging his broom as he walks off with two of his friends, and Harry resolves to finish the story after the next lesson. They're good kids, they deserve an uninterrupted story. He glances at Malfoy, annoyed as always by the pompous attitude, but the sight of those eyebrows sets him grinning again.

"What do you want, Malfoy? I've got stuff to do," he says when Malfoy just glares at him, and he hopes against hope that it's just going to be a brief conversation. He really does need to get down to the broomshed and try, once again, to get things back in order. It's a losing battle, he knows, but it's _his_ losing battle.

"Like what?" Malfoy says with a snort of derision. "Counting broomsticks? Checking which way is up? Making sure...actually, that's all I can think of. What is it you do, exactly?"

Harry is reminded strongly of school, as he often is when he and Malfoy need to have a conversation, but never more so than now. How quickly and easily Malfoy has fallen back into the pattern of hurling mocking accusations, Harry thinks, smoothing his expression, feeling a bit proud of himself that he's not rising to the bait.

"I don't think you came storming over here to tell me what you think of my job," he says with admirable calm, shifting the broomsticks so one of them stops vibrating against his ribs. "For one thing, I already know how low an opinion you have of me, and for another, I can't see you getting your feet wet just to snipe at me."

Well. _Almost_ not rising to the bait.

"No," Malfoy mutters, looking mutinous, and continues almost softly enough that Harry needs to lean in to hear him. "Perhaps I'd just like to know what the hell you think you're playing at?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry says calmly, ignoring the ever-so-noticeable Gryffindor-scarlet eyebrow lifting at him.

"What—did—you—do—to—my—eyebrows?" Malfoy fairly snarls and Harry comes so very close to dropping all of his brooms and falling into a heap of laughter. Only the wet, muddy ground and the very real possibility that Malfoy will hex him into painful oblivion keep him upright, but he can't entirely suppress the grin.

"Nothing," he says with a too-casual shrug. "It's a good color on you, though," he can't help adding brightly. It's a terrible color, obviously. It's almost obscenely bright, especially against his pale skin and hair. From a distance, it looks like he's bleeding inexplicably from the eyebrows.

"I know it was you, Potter."

"I don't think you do," Harry says with serene confidence.

"So it's merely coincidence, you're suggesting, that the very day after our...discussion about certain people's bias in removing house-points, I take points—quite rightfully so—"

 _When has that **ever** been true?_ Harry manages not to interject.

"—from a student in your House and I am immediately rewarded with _this?_ " Malfoy points to his eyebrows and then folds his arms, as if just waiting for Harry to own up now that the trademark Malfoy impeccable logic has been laid out. It's so damn _arrogant_.

"It wasn't me," Harry says coolly.

"Oh, really?"

"Really." Harry takes a firmer grip on the broomsticks and turns to leave, before he can succumb to the temptation to wallop Malfoy with one of them. He's certain _that_ couldn't be blamed on the notorious capriciousness of the school brooms. "Like I said, I have things to do."

"I know it was you, Potter!" Malfoy shouts at his back. "And I'm not going to forget it!"

He's not going to answer, he's _not_ , but he can feel Malfoy's eyes between his shoulder blades, dragging him to a halt. He stops and turns. "Hey, Malfoy?"

"Yes?"

For a moment, he's _sure_ that Malfoy thinks he's going to confess. "You do take too many points from Gryffindor," he says instead, and doesn't turn around again.

~*~

"Bloody Malfoy," Harry mutters as he opens the door to the broomshed, catches a falling broom on his foot, hurls the brooms into the darkness within, and slams the door after them. He ignores the faint clatters from inside as he leans against the door, folding his arms and glaring at the sky.

"Trust _you_ to take the fun out of something like this," he complains at the fluffy white clouds. He hadn't really thought about an ending to the tricky little charm, but he knows he can undo it pretty easily. The question is whether or not he wants to. Malfoy deserves it, the arrogant git, and Harry hadn't been at all surprised to see that Gryffindor red had shown up first.

"If you had your way, there wouldn't be a ruby left in the Gryffindor glass at all." But talking to an absent Malfoy isn't going to get anything done, Harry knows, and he's already behind schedule. Kicking at a clump of thistle on his way past, Harry storms back up to the castle. The fresh air and truly glorious weather do a lot to improve his mood, and by the time Duelling Club begins he feels refreshed and ready to take whatever his students throw at him, sometimes literally.

Harry has decided that the best course of action is to ignore Malfoy completely, something he has gotten better at over the years. It won't solve his dilemma of whether to remove the charm or leave it in place for another few days, or indefinitely, but it does allow him to put off thinking about it, which is acceptable enough. He succeeds in putting Malfoy out of his mind for the rest of the evening, sparing him just an idle thought as he crawls into bed exhausted, wondering if Malfoy had managed to rid himself of the red yet, and then he's asleep.

He can tell even when waking up that it's going to be another beautiful day for flying, which he's quite happy about, as he always likes his students to have an even playing field and he can't teach all of the first-years at once. The promise of a good flying lesson is enough to have him bouncing out of bed and walking in to breakfast bright and cheerful. As he'd vowed the night before, he ignores Malfoy completely and greets McGonagall, maybe a bit too cheerfully from the raised eyebrow he gets in response, but he can't be bothered by that. It's a lovely day.

The lovely day lasts almost two whole hours before Harry spots a scuffle in the courtyard on his way past. He breaks it up easily just by striding up and frowning. It's a free period for these students, so there are plenty of witnesses. No magic is being used, no wands are out, but it's pretty clear from the blotchy, upset face of the Ravenclaw and the sullen, defiant expression on the Slytherin that he's started it. Still, neither of them should have been fighting, so it'll be a few points from both Houses.

"All right, Johnston, I'm taking five points from Slytherin and—"

And he shivers, and the shiver locks each of his joints, and he nearly knocks the frowning Ravenclaw over as he pitches backward, hitting the stone wall painfully on the way down, feeling his knuckles scrape against the hard-packed ground.

 _What the fucking hell?_ he tries to say and realizes with mounting panic that he's only thought it, he can't speak, he can't do _anything_ , he's—

"Paralyzed," Johnston whispers, eyes wide with horror as the students drop to their knees around him. "Professor, Professor Potter, what's happened? Are you all right? What do we do?" he says in a panicky voice to the Ravenclaw he's just been sparring with.

"Hospital wing?" the Ravenclaw—Baldwin?—says hesitantly, reaching out for Harry's wrist with timid fingers, checking his pulse. "He's alive. And breathing. And stuff. Hospital wing?"

"How?" Johnston says, his previous sullen expression drowned now in concern.

"Well, we could carry...him..." Baldwin—no, Baines, Harry remembers, a second-year who hadn't needed much help with flying—Baines shakes his head at his own suggestion. Harry is much too heavy for three second-years to carry.

 _Levicorpus_ , Harry thinks hard at them, but he's not actually sure if they teach that spell to second-years. He'd learned it in third-year, but only because of Hermione.

They're joined by several more students demanding to know what's happened. As they discuss what to do in hushed voices, Harry can feel sensation starting to return to his fingers and toes. He thrashes, or it feels like he does, but the movements are tiny, hardly there for several seconds. Finally he manages to twitch a hand and the crowd of students falls silent, then begins chattering even louder.

He shuts them out, concentrating on the sensation of _moving_ , and finally he sits up, and stands up, leaning against the wall for support. He must not look recovered, as the students are still staring and whispering amongst themselves, and he's left wondering what happened when the sea of black robes parts and—

Of. _Course._

That utter, _utter Slytherin **bastard**._

Harry isn't at all certain of his ability to storm across the courtyard like he wants to, so he restrains himself to a simple beckoning gesture. Malfoy drifts over casually, as if they've an appointment to go over lesson plans together. Harry notes, to his irritation, that there isn't a trace of red left in Malfoy's eyebrows.

"Hello, Potter." Malfoy has the gall to be pleasant at him? Harry grits his teeth, fighting down his anger, reminding himself that there are still students present and a vicious duel between professors would not be setting them a good example. He'd likely lose anyway, with how shaky he feels. A Full Body-Bind is one of his least favorite things.

He doesn't mind the dirt, but brushing himself off buys him time to calm down and choose his words carefully. "I know this has something to do with you," he murmurs, keeping an eye on the students, hoping Johnston and Baines aren't blaming themselves for it.

"I'm flattered," Malfoy says calmly.

"Malfoy!"

"Potter?" Malfoy nearly beams at him.

Harry nearly screams back. "So this is your revenge?" he hisses instead. "Because you think I did something to your eyebrows yesterday?" Which he had, but colored eyebrows and a Full Body-Bind are _very different things_ , thanks very much.

"I don't know what you're talking about." Malfoy shrugs. "Perhaps someone thought you looked better flat on your back," he adds, lowering his voice, and if that had come from _anyone_ except Malfoy, Harry would assume—but no, it's coming from Malfoy, it's not flirtatious, it's mean-spirited.

"You think you're funny?" Harry sighs. "You think you're funny. Right." He balls his hands into fists and winces. His knuckles are stinging something _awful_ , and the wounds are filthy. He'll need to go see Poppy about them. Maybe he can make up a story. "Okay. This is not over, Malfoy," he promises.

Malfoy lifts an infuriatingly blonde eyebrow. "I'm terrified." And he turns, he _turns his back_ and walks away.

Harry fumes, then puts on a bright smile. "Thanks, Professor Malfoy!" he calls after the retreating figure. "It's always nice to talk to you!" _Wanker._

The second time it happens, just after lunch, he panics a little bit less and keeps his head a little bit more, and wonders if he should maybe take a break himself from taking away House points, and experiments with the idea that this revenge is justified. The idea doesn't sit well with him though, and instead he decides that the curse can't last forever, he isn't going to let it change anything, _he's_ just going to carry on as per usual.

Later that afternoon, when he's lying there staring at another crowd of concerned broom-clutching students and waiting for his muscles to begin responding to his commands again, he takes a moment to reflect that it's actually _really_ difficult to refrain from taking away House points as a quick and easy punishment for small (or large) infractions.

"I'm fine," he says immediately after the minute is up, as soon as he's able to start moving again. "I'm fine. It's nothing to worry about. Just you remember what I've said about talking when you're meant to be listening to me, yeah?"

That seems to clear most of the concern out of the students' expressions and the flying lesson goes ahead, but he knows he's being watched when he walks through the Entrance Hall on his way to the Gryffindor Quidditch practice.

The fourth time it happens, he's _in midair_ , telling off two Slytherin players who have snuck into the stands to watch their practice, which is a _completely_ legitimate and justified reason to take points from Slytherin, but the curse hasn't cared thus far about how justified the points are. He tries to choke back the "ten points each from Slytherin!" but the words escape him enough to activate the curse, and luckily he isn't too far off the ground, and luckily the Gryffindor Seeker has Seeker-like reflexes with spellwork too, _and_ he knows _Arresto Momentum_.

He wants to give Roger Jenkins about five thousand points for the gentle cushioning landing his Body-Binded body experiences, but he wonders if the curse works both ways and would freeze him up if he dared _give_ points rather than taking them away. By the time the team has been called in and is gathering around him, Harry is already beginning to move again. He's in no mood to hand out reassurances this time, and with a curt "Keep practising!" to Roxanne Ainsley, he stalks back toward the castle, not even pausing to pull off the mud-streaked robe.

He casts a careless _Tempus_ as he storms through the corridors. Just six o'clock, too early for the workaholic to be in his rooms yet, and Harry arrives at his door in a rail of knocking.

Malfoy's "Come in" is _much_ too calm, and Harry imagines some smugness there too as he bursts through the door.

"How long are you intending to keep this up?" he demands. This, apparently, is enough to prompt Malfoy to _deign_ to look up from his papers. Harry stands, fuming, as Malfoy looks him over, and wonders if he's battered enough yet or if Jenkins should have just let him fall. Would a broken arm be sufficient for the bloody sadist?

"I really don't—"

"Right," Harry breaks in, "you don't know what I'm talking about. I'd believe you, only..." Harry stalks forward, ignoring the squeak of his shoes, savagely pleased that he's likely tracking mud everywhere. "Wait, no, I wouldn't," he continues, folding his arms, ignoring the little voice urging him to keep his head. "Because pretty much everything that comes out of your mouth is a lie."

A hit, a very palpable hit, as Malfoy leans back in his chair, looking as though Harry's words have really reached out and given him a solid blow. "It's interesting that when you pull an idiotic stunt to humiliate me, it's all fun," Malfoy says in a tight voice, "but when you think it's the other way around, the claws come out."

The way Malfoy is playing with his quill and avoiding Harry's eyes is so reminiscent of their sixth year that for a moment, Harry forgets that it's his turn to speak. "Malfoy..." He shakes it off and continues firmly, "I don't know what you're trying to do here but this body-bind thing has happened to me three times since lunch. Enough is enough!" _I nearly fell from my broom, remember the last time that happened on the Quidditch pitch? Also your fault, if I recall!_

"Whatever happened to your eyebrows," he adds, because he's still petty enough not to own up to that, "I'm pretty sure it was only once!"

"I wouldn't know," Malfoy says delicately. "I haven't taken any points since then. Maybe you should try that."

 _What, none at **all**? Have you learned **already**?_ "You mean it wor—erm..." Harry nearly chokes on the almost-admission and fights to keep his focus in the face of Malfoy's sudden calm. "The point is, Malfoy..." There must be a point somewhere, right? "The point is—are you insane?" he demands, falling back on an old, tired insult.

The smile Malfoy gives Harry makes him itch between his shoulder blades, as if he's being watched. "It's interesting you should think that," Malfoy says, suddenly conversational, "because I happen to have read that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

Harry can feel the embarrassed flush rising to his cheeks—maybe Malfoy will think it's windburn—as he realizes he _had_ thought earlier that perhaps it had worn off. "Never mind that," he says more quietly, tightening both hands into fists to keep himself from lashing out. "Just stop it. Stop it now."

"Like I said, I have no idea what you're talking about. And I have things to do," Malfoy says, and Harry _knows_ Malfoy is repeating his words back to him on purpose. He manages not to flinch when Malfoy picks up his wand, but he's only opening the door to make it clear as crystal that this interview is over.

If he stays, Harry knows he's going to do something he'll regret. He storms toward the door, coming to a halt just outside it and turning back, unable to let it end there. "Malfoy, if you don't sort this out—"

"You'll do what?" Malfoy asks mockingly. "Run to McGonagall?" He looks away, turning pointedly back to his papers.

Harry snorts, imagining what McGonagall's reaction would be to this schoolboy feud between two of her professors. "No," he says, then a wicked, hot little voice prompts him to cut at Malfoy with, "but I wonder who she'd believe—you or me?"

As soon as he says it, he wishes he hadn't. He doesn't really know how Malfoy ended up at Hogwarts, but he's heard that McGonagall had something to do with it. That might have been a lower blow than he'd meant it to be, and when he sees Malfoy's face he knows that it was. He finds himself stuck between defiantly leaving the words sitting between them and offering a quiet apology, but the words don't quite seem to cooperate.

Malfoy beats him to it with a glare. "I can fight my own battles these days, Potter. Maybe you should try the same—it's been a while, hasn't it?"

Immediately, Harry can hear the voice in his head _("You have permitted your friends to die for you rather than face me yourself...to die...permitted your friends...")_ and before he can force them away and find some way to react, the door swings shut with enough force that if he'd been a bit closer, he'd be visiting Poppy for a broken nose.

Harry stands and stares at the door, breathing carefully, imagining his Patronus charging down the words that write themselves across his imagination, Tom Riddle's handwriting shaped into pieces of shining black ribbon. Finally, when they're all gone, driven off by Prongs, he walks away.

~*~

Perhaps predictably, Harry sleeps badly. His dreams are blessedly free of a high, amused laugh, or flashes of green light, or any of the horrors that had haunted his dreams when he was younger, but they are still strange, nonsensical, and vaguely unsettling. He wakes earlier than he needs to, in a foul mood despite the continuing lovely weather, and as he stomps and mutters his way through his morning routine, he vows to avoid Malfoy entirely, _and_ keep ignoring this curse-thing of his. If Harry falls into a Full Body-Bind enough times, McGonagall is sure to notice, and Malfoy will be the one in the way of her wrath. That's the best logic he can summon today.

He eats breakfast early, hardly noticing what he's putting onto his plate, and leaves the Great Hall before Malfoy appears. He hasn't anything on his schedule yet, but working with the students always makes him feel better, which is how he ends up in the courtyard explaining to Magnus Humphries why Extensor charms are so useful.

"It's not something your average wizard uses every day," he is saying as he casts the charm, which shimmers in front of him like a film of soap-bubble. "And they can be a bit tricky if you don't concentrate—hey!" he shouts across the courtyard as he sees a flash of spell-light out of the corner of his eye.

Ivy Baron has her wand out, pointed at a group of boys, possibly also Slytherins. Ordinarily, Harry would ask what was going on, but the foul mood resurges and he points at them. "Ten points from Slytheri—" and he chokes on the final "n" as the Extensor charm shimmers more brightly and then pops.

He can't breathe, for a moment he can't _breathe_ , and he hardly feels the impact with the ground this time. Faces appear above him, horrified, a sight he's beginning to grow used to, and he closes his eyes. He tries to close his eyes. He can't close his eyes. He can feel himself breathing, but when he tries to take a deeper breath, he can't. He tries to twitch a finger and he can't. He can't, he can't, he can't—

 _Don't panic_ , he tells himself firmly. _It wears off in a minute. And after this, I can visit Malfoy with his own personal Bat-Bogey Hex, that should be a fun memory for him._

"Professor Potter. _Professor._ " It's Ivy Baron, he knows her voice, but the fall has knocked his glasses aside and he can't move his eyes around to see which of the fast-moving blurs is Ivy. " _Enervate,_ " he hears—ah, there's Ivy, she's the one holding a wand—and he can feel the tingle of the spell wash over him. It doesn't help, but everything is fine.

Everything is fine even when he's certain that sixty seconds have passed and he still can't twitch even a finger, or take a deep breath, or move his eyes. Everything is fine.

Everything is still fine when he hears Malfoy's voice at the entrance to the courtyard. "Miss Baron, step aside, please," and Malfoy sounds fairly calm, it's Malfoy's curse and therefore Malfoy can get him out of it.

He waits expectantly. Malfoy casts the counter-curse. Then Malfoy casts it again.

Harry hears, "How long has he been like this?" and suddenly _everything is not fine, nothing is fine, he can't move, he can't blink, he can't **breathe on his own** —_

"About five minutes," and there's a note of panic in Ivy's voice that cuts through Harry's own panic like a dashing of cold water across his face. With a supreme effort, he digs in his fingers and drags himself out of the pit his panic has dropped him into, until his fingers hit smooth, cool glass. It's a goldfish bowl, and he's at the bottom of it, surrounded by students staring down.

He can't see himself, but he can see the students clustered in a tight circle around him, Malfoy towering over him with his wand out—unnerving sight, that—and questioning red-haired Ivy Baron, who looks petrified, as if this is her doing. Harry presses his palms against the glass, staring up, feeling weirdly exposed as Malfoy asks, "What did you do?"

The story comes out—Ivy had been trying to protect her sister, not curse anyone—and Harry feels instantly bad for jumping to conclusions about who had cast what. It wouldn't have happened that way if he'd been in a better mood, but Malfoy's got inside his head and mixed things up so now _Harry's_ the one shouting at students without reason and _Malfoy's_ the one asking patient questions to find out what's happened.

"What's wrong with him?" asks a student Harry can't see. Malfoy doesn't answer and Harry slams his palms against the cold glass.

" _Yeah, tell them, Malfoy! Tell them what's wrong with me!_ " he yells up at the faces. " _Tell them what you've done to me, why don't you!_ " He unleashes a shower of profanity that isn't overheard by the students and doesn't make him feel any better.

When it runs out, he stares up at Malfoy staring down at him. Malfoy looks afraid. Why does Malfoy look afraid? " _What's wrong with me?_ " he asks in something closer to a whisper.

Malfoy doesn't answer—obviously he wouldn't, he can't hear Harry, no one can hear Harry—but Harry can see a relieved expression blossom on his face when the students part and Poppy crouches next to him.

" _Hi, Poppy,_ " he says, even though she can't hear him, but he's just relieved to see her. She'll be able to help, he's sure she's seen this before, obviously, she's seen every daft thing students have done to each other, this is _nothing._

Harry sits cross-legged on the floor of the goldfish bowl and watches the lights from the spellwork light up the glass. He'll be able to move again any minute. Obviously.

Poppy's expression of concentration only deepens. Harry frowns, and he stands up again when she turns away and back to Malfoy. "Professor Malfoy, perhaps you'll help me get him up to the hospital wing?"

" _But—what? Why? What's wrong? **You** can put me right, Poppy,_ " Harry protests, then stumbles back as his body is levitated and begins moving. It's disorienting, he's unable to ground himself, and he feels faintly sick, though whether that's from the movement or from the realization beginning to unfold itself in his stomach, he doesn't know.

Maybe she just needs a potion to do it, Harry rationalizes as he sits with his back against the glass and watches the slow progression of the stone arches filled with sky, bracketed by pillars. Sky, pillar, sky, pillar. Not everything can be solved by magic alone. Sky, pillar, sky, pillar. Glass-filled window with milky sunlight filtering through.

He can half-see Malfoy's face, staring straight ahead, looking forbidding. He can hear the clicking of heels on stone and wonders why he hadn't realized Poppy wore heels before another face bobs into his view and quickly disappears again. Ivy Baron. Why is she coming with them? He's missed it.

As Harry is floated into the hospital wing—dark oak door frame, ornate stone ceiling he remembers from the night he'd had his bones grown back in second year—he hears a whispered "Shut up, Potter" and he starts so hard he nearly knocks his head on the glass.

" _Malfoy? Can you hear me? Wait, how could you, I didn't say anything. What the hell do you mean, 'Shut up, Potter'? I can't be more shut up than I am, thanks to you, Malfoy! Stupid...git,_ " Harry trails off, wrapping his arms around his knees as they set him down on a bed. It's chilly in the hospital wing, much cooler than it had been outside.

Malfoy is dictating orders to Ivy Baron, sounding pinched and cross, and Harry rolls his eyes when Malfoy asks if she understands. " _Of course she **understands** , Malfoy, she isn't an idiotic git like some people._" He watches Ivy as she relates the story to Poppy, noticing the way the normally-outgoing girl keeps her eyes down. " _You're even like this to Slytherins?_ " Harry asks, shaking his head. " _Bloody unpleasant in general, aren't you? Some things never change._ "

Except in school, the Slytherins had actually _liked_ Malfoy. That's changed, it seems, if Ivy's anything to go by. Harry is musing on that when he hears his name again and looks up.

"—stay with Professor Potter while I run a few tests?"

" _God, I hope not,_ " Harry says fervently, staring up at the two of them, Malfoy's startled face and Poppy's shrewd, calm stare.

"Er," Malfoy says, "I'd better not. I have a class starting in..." Harry tips his head as he hears the bell. He's late for something too, but he supposes he's got a fairly solid excuse. Black humor, he thinks. He may as well embrace it. "Well, there's the bell," Malfoy continues, backing away from the bed as if Harry is contagious. "I wouldn't want to be late! Sets a terrible example, you see, and I must..." Malfoy's voice trails away as the doors close behind him.

" _Good!_ " Harry shouts after him. " _Wouldn't want to miss inflicting yourself on your students, they might forget to hate you for a day!_ "

Harry slumps back against the curved wall of the goldfish bowl and stares at nothing in particular as Poppy sighs and smiles at Ivy. "Well, Miss Baron, it's just you and me."

"But Professor Malfoy said I should go back to class," Ivy says uncertainly, looking down at Harry.

"You certainly may if you wish," Poppy says briskly as she moves away from Harry's sight. He can hear bottles clattering in the background. "I will write you a note to excuse you for being late. But Professor Potter may be grateful for the company. You are a member of the Duelling Club, I believe?"

"I, er, yes I am," Ivy says with a bit more confidence. Harry can hear the scrape of wood and then Ivy reappears, perched on a chair next to the bed.

"I was a part of the Duelling Club when I was a girl." Harry snorts with laughter at Ivy's startled expression, and he can tell she's trying to imagine _Madam Pomfrey_ as a _student_. It's difficult for Harry as well, but then, Poppy looks exactly as she'd looked when Harry had been twelve. "I spent much of my time there repairing the damage done," Poppy continues wryly. "But it did spark my interest in healing spells. I'm glad to see the Club has been resurrected. Doing well, I hope?"

"Um, yes, fairly well," says Ivy, tucking her red hair behind her ear. "Thank you," she adds automatically.

"You're quite welcome." Poppy takes a sample of Harry's hair, for some reason, and waves her wand, causing a few other colors to bloom. Then she removes Harry's glasses, which makes him feel a bit apprehensive at first until she whispers a spell that makes Harry's watering eyes fairly gush. It's a really uncomfortable sensation, and he can feel tears running down his cheeks as well. The last thing Harry sees is her hand gently covering his eyes to close the lids.

" _Bless you, Poppy,_ " he sighs, scrubbing at his streaming eyes as he feels a soft cloth dabbing at his cheeks, wiping away the excess tears.

"There, Harry, you'll be much more comfortable now." Harry can't see her anymore, obviously, but it's rude not to look at people when they're talking to you. He imagines her and she appears immediately, with the ornate ceiling above her, and Harry smiles back.

"Now," the imagined Poppy says, "I have one or two tests to run." She's talking to Ivy now, and the Poppy straightens up and addresses her impromptu assistant. "They won't take long, but if you could keep Professor Potter company while I'm gone, I'm sure he'd be grateful. And if anything changes, please come and find me right away, all right?"

"Yes, Madam Pomfrey, all right," Ivy says, and Harry pictures her sitting straighter with that determined jut to her chin that she gets when she's trying to master a challenging spell. Poppy's right, Harry thinks. He does feel better having someone familiar nearby, especially now that he can't see.

Poppy's footsteps fade and a door closes in the distance. He hears Ivy heave a sigh. "I really don't know what happened," she stage-whispers, quickly, as if trying to get the words out before they're overheard. "I'm sorry, Professor. I wish I could help."

" _You're doing fine, Ivy,_ " Harry says and imagines himself sitting up in bed, the better to talk to her.

His imagined Ivy looks very small and young for her fifteen years. "You look sort of alarming like this," she admits. "You look sort of..."

" _Sort of dead? Yeah, it's not the first time,_ " Harry says with a shrug.

Ivy is silent for several seconds. Harry hopes she doesn't feel guilty, that she isn't missing a class she'll have trouble making up, that she doesn't feel strange sitting here keeping her frozen, motionless professor company. "Are you cold?" Ivy asks and hops off her chair. Her heels clatter around the bed and Harry wonders what she's doing until a heavy, warm weight settles on him and he realizes she's drawn a blanket up to cover him.

" _Thanks, Ivy._ " Harry imagines a blanket of his own, soft and warm, Gryffindor red and gold—knitted, like something Mrs. Weasley would have made—and wraps it around his shoulders. It's dark now that his eyes are closed, and he stares through the glass into the darkness, wondering what's out there, and how long he'll be like this.

"Magnus and I have been talking," Ivy says, breaking the silence, "and we think we've a better way of letting the younger students practice some of the more challenging spells in Duelling. We don't want them to be hurt, and I think they're nervous of accidentally hurting someone else, but I was thinking about what you'd told us about Dumbledore's Army back when you were a student, and I think we could make some of those wizarding dummies."

Ivy describes her idea, that she and Magnus work with a few of the older students who are good in Charms and Transfiguration to construct a few wooden dummies that the younger students will be able to "blast away at" without worrying about something going terribly wrong. Harry sits back against the glass and lets her words wash over him, occasionally nodding, reassured that he wouldn't have much more to say about it even if he could talk. It's a good idea, and it sounds like Ivy has thought it through. He wishes he could help with it, of course, but Ivy might not need the help.

Ivy talks until the distant door reopens, then cuts off mid-sentence as Poppy's footsteps approach the bed. "Did you cover him up?" Poppy asks.

"I, er, yes. I wasn't sure if he was cold, but I thought it might not hurt," Ivy says.

Harry can see Poppy's smile. "It was very considerate," she says. "What did you two talk about?"

Some coil of tension loosens itself in the vicinity of Harry's stomach. Trust Poppy to treat him normally and act as though he and Ivy had had a conversation.

"I was telling Professor Potter about mine and Magnus's idea for Duelling Club," Ivy says. He hears her hop off the chair, and then it scrapes against the stone as she drags it out of the way. "We'd like to make some mannequins or dummies to practice on, so the younger students can try some more difficult things without worrying about cursing someone."

"That's an excellent idea," Poppy says approvingly and Harry nods in agreement. "I'm sure he agrees." She sets a hand on his forehead, then presses her fingers against his cheek, takes his temperature with a whispered spell.

" _Best send Ivy back to class soon,_ " Harry says.

"Thank you, Miss Baron. Here is your note. I must ask you not to discuss Professor Potter's condition," Poppy says briskly.

"No, Madam Pomfrey, I won't." He imagines Ivy shaking her head firmly. "Er...Professor Potter can hear us, can't he?"

" _Every last word, even better than I can hear you and Magnus whispering during lessons,_ " Harry says, examining this blanket that his imagination has conjured up for him. It's surprisingly detailed, warm and soft, with little imperfections in the wool and the stitching, and for a moment he can't remember whether or not Mrs. Weasley really _did_ knit him a blanket with a Gryffindor lion on it one year instead of a jumper.

"I believe he can," Poppy is saying when he looks up again. "Talking to him is one of the best things we can do. You did quite well, Miss Baron. Now, off you go."

"Thanks, Madam Pomfrey." Her heels clack toward the door and he hears it creak open before Ivy stops. "I'll, that is, could I come back and visit?"

Poppy hesitates, he can _see_ her hesitating, before she says, "We'll see. I hope Mr. Potter will not be here long enough to need a visit."

Apparently satisfied with that answer, Ivy must depart without saying anything else, as Harry hears the heavy door close. " _I will be, though, won't I?_ " he asks the imagined figure of Poppy, standing in the middle of the imagined hospital wing with a worried frown on her imagined face. " _I will be here long enough to need a visit._ "

"Well now, Harry," Poppy says, setting a hand on his forehead again, but maybe just to give him a bit of comfort this time, as she leaves it there longer than she needs to for simply checking his temperature. "We'll do what we can to make you comfortable. Minerva is on her way down. She insisted on seeing you herself. I hope you don't mind."

" _I don't mind,_ " Harry says, picking at a loose thread on his blanket, unraveling it enough to get some loose string to play with. It's not really one of Mrs. Weasley's gifts, so it's all right to do that. " _Let her know whose fault it is. Let her know she can tell people the truth if they ask. So can Ivy. They should tell the truth. They should tell **everyone!**_ "

Harry yanks savagely on the thread and the entire blanket unravels into a pile of red thread. Harry glares at it until it sinks slowly down through the bottom of the bowl and the glass closes over it again, viscous like syrup. He stares and then stands up slowly. " _I don't want to be here anymore,_ " he says aloud.

There is no answer, and he puts a hand against the glass. " _I want to be somewhere else._ " But there's no point in saying that without having somewhere else in mind, is there? He wonders what time it is, automatically casts _Tempus_ to find out, then scowls at the floating, blinking _87:70_ and banishes it. That's no help at all.

No, he thinks, he can work this out. It had been morning, just after breakfast when he'd been helping Magnus, and not much time could have passed since then. Probably. So it's likely late morning, maybe lunchtime, and the Great Hall materializes around him, a bit wavery from his view through the glass.

" _Weird,_ " he murmurs and presses a little harder on the glass, experimentally. His hand sinks into it with a cool, slick sensation, and he shivers and closes his eyes and presses his way through the glass. He's clean when he opens his eyes, no trace of the glass on him, and it's gone when he turns around. " _Huh. Well, that was pretty easy,_ " he says, mood lifting a bit as he walks toward the High Table. Everyone is dressed in their winter robes and there is snow falling outside the windows, big thick flakes gathering on the panes. The chatter he hears from the tables is mostly speculation on the outcome of the Quidditch match that afternoon, and Harry realizes this is November, two years ago, that day Gryffindor and Ravenclaw had played in an almost impenetrable blizzard. It's like walking through one of his memories.

It _is_ walking through one of his memories.

Harry stops in the middle of the Hall and two second-years dodge him as he stands transfixed beneath the weight of that realization. He can walk through his _memories._

 _Think about Diagon Alley,_ he begs himself. _Think about coaching Quidditch. Think about the World Cup—the beginning bit, the match, not the other stuff. Think about—_

But either he isn't fast enough or the memories of darker times are just too strong to be shouldered aside, because the fires flicker out of the Great Hall, the windows burst and shatter in to the sound of students screaming—

The sound of the hospital wing doors opening is enough to slam Harry out of the old memory and he focuses desperately on Minerva's hurried footsteps. "Poppy, is he—oh, _Harry._ Dear boy."

" _I'm thirty-two, you know,_ " Harry says weakly, more grateful than he can say for the anchoring hand McGonagall sets on his forehead. He knows he'll always be _dear boy_ to several people, and she's one of them. He doesn't mind, at least not right now.

McGonagall's hand disappears from his forehead, but Harry hears the scrape of the chair, and then her hand returns to press against his shoulder. "Poppy, what on earth _happened?_ "

Harry listens with half an ear as Poppy runs through the story again, noting that she gives Minerva the names of all four students involved as well as Malfoy, but he's concentrating on creating an imaginary McGonagall. He's already discovering that it's much easier to focus on the conversation when he has someone to focus on.

That and the unsettling darkness pressing against his eyelids is getting harder to ignore, and he needs to put something there before his subconscious decides to populate it without his input.

Although he sees her several times a week, Harry still imagines Minerva McGonagall as the imposing, skeptical figure in emerald green who had towered over the crowd of first-years and explained about the Sorting. He's grown since then, but he still puts her in that same set of green robes, and her matching hat, but it comes with a forbidding expression he remembers her directing at Neville when he'd lost Trevor. No hat, then, he decides, and feels instantly better when he's got rid of it.

"But what do you believe has caused this?" McGonagall is asking Poppy and Harry pauses in recreating her Transfiguration classroom to put her in. He's got a few theories, and of course he knows about Malfoy's part in it, but he doesn't really know _why_ this has happened.

"Well, when the Healer from St. Mungo's arrives, we'll have a more definite answer," Poppy answers, but clearly McGonagall is giving her one of those skeptical looks, as she continues. "Ivy mentioned Harry helping Magnus Humphries with an Extensor Charm."

"Yes, but Magnus Humphries isn't the type to cast anything on a _teacher,_ " McGonagall points out. "Even accidentally."

"And Harry wouldn't have cast a Full-Body Bind on _himself,_ " Poppy says, and Harry can see her firm, certain nod. "He's far too sensible for that. But then where did it come from, and why has it been affected by an Extensor Charm that Harry himself had cast?" she muses.

Both women fall silent and Harry imagines them sitting, a little dejected, watching him and wondering. " _The curse Malfoy put on me got tangled in the Extensor Charm when I tried to take points from Slytherin,_ " Harry says, entirely unhelpfully as neither woman can hear him. " _Go and quiz him on it._ "

The silence continues, so Harry goes back to building McGonagall's Transfiguration classroom. Then he goes back to the Great Hall and starts fixing that up. By the time he's finished with the sky-reflecting ceiling, he's decided to go ahead and rebuild the rest in his mind's eye. It will give him something to do until the healer from St. Mungo's arrives and puts him right, anyway.

Not much had changed at Hogwarts since he'd been there as a student, even taking the Battle of Hogwarts into account. Professors, past and present, had come together and made a concerted effort to restore the ancient castle to its former glory, nearly untouched by the conflict save for a black onyx paving stone in the courtyard where Voldemort had finally, finally died.

Harry meanders through corridors recreated in his imagination, rearranges the staircases with a furrow of concentration, hangs portrait frames on the walls and fills them with the painted figures he remembers. After a while—he isn't certain how long, and his _Tempus_ still comes up as gibberish—he leaves the rest of the frames empty and walks the long, familiar route up to Gryffindor Tower.

" _G'morning,_ " he greets the painting of the Fat Lady, still presiding over Gryffindor Tower after this long.

" _Hello, dear,_ " she replies absently. " _Password?_ "

Harry thinks for a moment. It's up to him now, isn't it? This is all up to him. Or is it up to her? " _Dunno,_ " he says, thinking himself up a spindly chair and sitting backward on it, leaning crossed arms on the back. _"What do you think would make a good one?"_

The Fat Lady blinks down at him, surprised, and snaps her fan closed. " _Well, I'm sure **I** don't know,_ " she demurs.

" _I bet you know loads of brilliant ones._ " Harry grins as she flutters the fan coquettishly in front of her face. " _We've never really chatted before now._ "

But because they'd never really chatted before now, the Fat Lady in Harry's imagination doesn't do much more than smile and flutter her fan at him. " _Caput draconis,_ " Harry says at last, just to pick something. Maybe he'll work his way through all the passwords he can remember during his school days.

The portrait swings forward and Harry absently carries the spindly chair into the Gryffindor Common Room. This, he changes to reflect his first year, all deep red walls and velvet drapery edged in real gold, with worn red armchairs pulled up to the fire. He climbs into one of them—it's oversized, as if he hasn't grown at all since he was eleven—and stares at the leaping flames.

He can't hear anything from the ward. McGonagall has gone, maybe slipped out while he was building walls or painting portraits, and he doesn't think Poppy is there either. He'd known it would happen, he has nothing else to occupy his time, but Harry isn't ready to grow introspective yet. " _Something will fix it,_ " he tells the fire. " _They've already called a Healer. They can put me right. Can't be anything they've not seen before._ "

The fire doesn't answer. Harry doesn't blame it. It's not the fire's responsibility to keep him from going completely mad before the Healer arrives and fixes him up.

"Here we are, Harry." Poppy's voice startles him, but not as much as it startles him when she wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him, carefully but steadily, into a sitting position. "You may be here for some time," she continues cheerfully as her deft hands begin unlacing his flying robes, "so we'll make you a great deal more comfortable. I have some lovely pajamas for you, in a nice light blue."

" _Er. Thanks,_ " Harry says, feeling awkward despite Poppy's cheerful demeanor and fast, practiced movements. He can't really remember a time he'd needed help dressing himself. Aunt Petunia had left him to dress himself almost as soon as he'd managed to balance on two legs, and although he'd spent a lot of time in the hospital wing, he'd never been _completely_ helpless before.

" _I don't much care for it,_ " he mutters, picking at a loose gold thread in the armchair's embroidery. " _Bloody Malfoy._ " Bloody, bloody Malfoy. And it doesn't make Harry feel any better to know that technically, Harry had started it.

It doesn't take Poppy long to finish, and Harry is grateful for the running commentary and idle chatter she keeps up during the whole process. The pajamas are lighter than his robes, much better for lying completely still in, and he can feel more of the air through them. She's right, he does feel more comfortable.

Harry is dozing in his chair when the sound of a bottle hitting the floor shatters through his mind and breaks apart the warm, comfortable Common Room. Harry grips the arms of his red armchair until his knuckles go white as blackness leaks in like runny ink, crawling over the red and gold and crackling in the fire until Harry is left with his armchair, staring up blindly into the darkness.

" _What time is it?_ " he blurts, forgetting for a moment that he won't get any answer that makes sense.

A scraping sound backed by muttering might be broken glass being swept off stone floors, and a whispered _Evanesco_ is the spilled potion being cleaned up. Poppy is out there again. Is she looking after a different student, or doing something else for him? Is she just doing her rounds, keeping things spotless as always?

Unbidden, a vision of the hospital wing blurs into view, dark and flooded with moonlight, though Harry doesn't know if it's late enough for moonlight. He doesn't want to leave the safety of the armchair, but there are a few details that aren't quite right, and he does want to fix that. Harry sits perched on the edge of the cushion, torn between getting up and moving closer so he can refine the imagined room, or staying where he is in the (probably false, honestly) hope that the chair won't suddenly change under him.

He hears squeaky footsteps—Poppy's, he knows them already—drawing closer to his bed. "Good afternoon," she says briskly, which prompts the moonlight to turn into golden sunlight as if a switch has been flipped, and Harry's almost sure she isn't talking to him. She doesn't sound nearly so relaxed.

"Why have you closed his eyes?" asks Harry's least favorite person in the world as a version of him shimmers into existence, and Harry's sudden surge of anger shifts the afternoon sunlight to the deep glow of a vivid sunset before a storm rolls in. It washes the stone red, along with Malfoy's pale skin and hair, but it doesn't keep the imagined Malfoy from staring at him as he adds, "He's not dead."

" _Yeah, still not dead,_ " Harry growls, echoed by thunder only he can hear, as he shoves himself out of the armchair and stalks around the tall simulacrum. " _Bit of a disappointment, is it? After this long, you could've been shot of me, but you've botched it up, haven't you?_ "

Even as he says it, he knows it isn't fair, because it isn't true, but he doesn't care. Harry waves a hand in front of the Malfoy's face. He doesn't react. Feeling oddly like a ghost in his own mind, Harry withdraws a few paces and listens to Poppy.

"...can't blink, Professor Malfoy. I closed his eyes to stop them getting dry and sore."

" _Bless you for it, Poppy,_ " Harry says absently, still watching the unmoving figure of Malfoy, bathed in too-red sunlight. It washes out what little color he has. He looks like a statue, or like he's been Petrified. Weird juxtaposition of the two of them.

"The eyes aren't usually affected by _Petrificus Totalus_ , but this is a rather unusual case," Poppy continues, and now her voice sounds a bit more like the tone she uses when she speaks to Harry.

It takes Malfoy a long time to answer, and when he finally does, his "Yes, I suppose it is" is so oddly _subdued_ that Harry wishes, for the first time since this started, that he could actually see Malfoy's face, maybe figure out why he sounds so unlike himself.

That urge will pass, Harry tells himself.

He doesn't hear footsteps throughout Poppy's potion-administering process—which just feels a completely different type of _weird_ , as the potion pours into his mouth and into his stomach without his having to swallow, as if he's just a chute—and he occupies himself thinking how weird Malfoy is for staying to watch, because it's easier than wondering _why_ Malfoy had stayed to watch. Finally, after Poppy has walked away, he hears Malfoy shuffling for the door. The imagined simulacrum walks away too, shoulders set tight and tense, bent a little against the dark red sunlight as if it has a weight to it.

"Good evening, Potter." It's curt and unexpected, and Harry gapes and doesn't think to answer until the oak doors close. The heavy sound leaves Harry feeling oddly unbalanced, because even though Malfoy wouldn't have known whether or not Harry answered, Harry hadn't.

" _'Night, Malfoy,_ " he says anyway, and feels a little better, and feels annoyed about it, and storms off to build a Quidditch pitch.

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued! Next up, the visit from the St. Mungo's Healer, and Harry's first instance of being worried for Malfoy.


End file.
